1x12: Faith
by Linguam
Summary: Missing scene to the episode "Faith." Dean is stubborn and in pain, and Sam is exasperated and bitchy (i.e. worried). But what else is new.


**A/N:** New to the fandom, not new to the series. I thought I'd start off with something we're all already plenty familiar with (and that's already been done numerous times - Linguam: 0 points for originality). Any errors you might come across I blame on the fact that it's four in the friggin' morning (seriously, what is it with fanfic and burning the midnight oil?) Hope you enjoy anyway.

 **Warnings:** Spoilers for 1x12: Faith, obviously. Takes place when the boys return to the motel after having lifted Sue-Ann's binding spell, and before Layla arrives the following morning. Because I wanted Dean to suffer some more, and Sam to be the little brother who nearly lost his best friend and mentor. Plotless, brotherly banter and comfort ahoy.

 **Disclaimer:** Wish I owned them, but I don't. And if that ain't cause for depression, I don't know what is.

* * *

"You sure you're alright?" Sam asks, for what has to be the millionth time since this whole mess started. It's getting really old, really fast.

"Go on inside," Dean says, and doesn't take his eyes off of the windshield. "I'll be right there."

"Dean…"

"Inside, Sam."

There's an annoyed huff, most likely accompanied by a pretty epic bitch-face, and then the passenger door opens. As soon as his brother disappears into the motel, Dean sighs and leans against the backrest, closing his eyes.

Crap, his head hurts. He can all too well imagine a Wendigo forcing its claws into the very center of his brain, just happily digging away. Worse than the most epic hangover he's ever had – and that's actually saying something. And then there's Layla, and Marshall Hall who died to save him, not to mention his Dad who never called them back – and no, _definitely not going there_ –, and almost having died _himself,_ twice in less than a week…

Dean kneads at his temple. Slowly breathes out through his nose to quell the sudden burst of nausea.

He can only assume it's some kind of aftereffect of his close encounter with the reaper; not that he's too worried about it. Considering how everything could have – by all means, _should_ have – played out, Dean knows he's getting off easy.

Still, that Wendigo sure is having a field day up there.

He draws another three slow breaths, before straightening and pushing the door open. Despite how much he'd prefer not to move, he knows that if he doesn't appear in their room within the next five minutes, he's going to have a seriously pissed-off and worried little brother on his ass.

By the time he gets to their room, he's pretty sure piranhas have joined forces with the Wendigo at eating away at his brain, and he doesn't so much walk up to their door as he stumbles into the frame with a heavy thud.

Unsurprisingly, it doesn't do either his headache or his escalating nausea any favors.

 _Pull yourself together, Winchester,_ he growls at himself, annoyed, and reaches for the door handle…

It disappears so suddenly he almost takes a nosedive at the floor.

"Whoa, hey!"

Large hands grip his shoulders, and then Sam is staring at him, eyes wide and alarmed.

"Dean? Hey, you okay?" he asks, in a _no-no-no-hell-no-this-cannot-be-happening-again-no_ kind of way, and Christ, Dean could last a lifetime without ever hearing that note of quiet despair in his little brother's voice ever again.

"Hey, what happened?" Sam presses, eyes sweeping the corridor, and frantically starts dragging him into the room. "Is someone after you? Are you hurt?"

"Dude, personal space," Dean grumbles, and shoves him off. "I'm fine." Everything sways for a moment before settling, and then when it does, he's immediately confronted with the full force of Sammy's bitch-face number #3.

He stifles a sigh.

God, he hates bitch-face number #3.

"Dean, what the hell is going on?"

"Nothin's going on. I just got a headache." He figures he might as well admit to that much, since the hand that's more or less glued to his forehead is probably a dead giveaway.

Sam snorts.

"No way that's _'just'_ a headache, Dean. You've been off since we left La Grange, so don't give me that bullshit. What the hell happened?"

Dean doesn't say anything, but slowly makes it over to his bed. His vision might be a little blurry but his hearing works just fine, and he can hear the exact moment when his brother figures it out, and knows that this is the silence that precedes an epic lecture.

Man, this week _sucks._

Sam takes a deep breath, exhales with audible restraint.

"It got to you, didn't it?"

Yep, lecture-time it is.

Dean sighs.

"Sam…"

"Dammit, Dean! You almost died, _again,_ and you didn't even think to _mention_ it to me? _Seriously?_ "

Dean brings up his other hand to cradle his throbbing head. The Wendigo is laughing at him, the bastard.

"Sam…"

"Your picture was _on_ Sue-Ann's _altar._ What if you have whatever Layla has, huh? What was it, an _inoperable brain tumor?_ What if I was too late and the reaper did something, or left something behind? What if-"

"Jesus, Sam!" Dean snaps. "Could you maybe take it down a notch? Some of us are trying to keep their friggin' brains from exploding!"

Again, there's that alarmed look skating across Sam's eyes, effectively dampening the anger. He looks indecisive for a moment, stuck somewhere between worry and frustration: eyes darting around the room.

"We should get you to a doctor," he eventually says.

"There's nothing a doctor can do, Sam," Dean says, kicking his boots off tiredly. "I just need to sleep it off, that's all."

"C'mon, Dean, you can't know that for sure."

"You're right, I can't. But I _do,_ so chill, dude _._ And either way, where would we go? All they got in this place is that small-scale clinic, and I'm pretty sure they're not working a 24/7 schedule."

He rises, uses the wall for support as he shuffles out of his jeans; it's either that, or face the very real risk of performing an extremely undignified face plant, and his head hurts enough as it is, thank you.

Sam bites at his lip and doesn't look convinced, and, really, who can blame the guy?

Dean sighs.

"Sam, honestly. I'm fine, alright? I mean, yeah, my head's killing me, but I really think it's just some residual crap from getting a little too up close and personal with the reaper."

He doesn't say that, even if it isn't, even if there _is_ more to it than just some weird side effects, there would be nothing a doctor could do anyway: the key word here being _inoperable_ brain tumor.

"And I'd say getting away with nothing more than a headache's the best deal we could've hoped for," he adds casually. "You know, considering the alternative."

Sam crosses his arms, mouth set in a grim line.

"What else?"

"'What else,' what?"

" _Aside_ from the headache, you moron. And the fact that your balance is obviously shot to hell. Double vision? Nausea?"

Damn, the kid's perceptive.

Sam sighs in frustration when he doesn't answer.

"I still think we should go to a doctor," he insists, but it's more _grumpy, worried_ _little_ _brother_ and less _I'll-tie-you-to-the-Impala-and-drag-you-there-if-you-don't-start-listening-to-me_.

Dean can work with that.

"They won't find anything, Sam, _because-_ " Dean continues before he's interrupted by his nagging sibling. "-I'm not dying." He looks his brother in the eye. "I'm not dying, Sam."

Sam watches him silently, as if he believes that, if he concentrates hard enough, he will somehow be able to _see_ whether there's a tumor growing inside Dean's brain.

He raises a finger.

"First sign," he says. "First sign there's something wrong, that whatever this is doesn't let up, and you tell me. You tell me and we're going and making sure, alright?"

Dean rolls his eyes.

"Okay, _mom…_ "

"Dean, I mean it. Everything that's happened this past week, I can't…" Sam swallows thickly, eyes heavy with the weight of too many losses. "I can't go through that again. I won't."

Dean studies him, and for the first time he thinks about what this week must've been like for his little brother. Thinks about what it would've been like if their roles had been reversed – and has to smother that thought before it takes root and gives him a stroke.

He forces bile down his throat and nods.

"I hear ya, Sammy."

Sam looks at him a beat longer, and then nods, too, seemingly satisfied.

"So…" Dean clears his throat, and winces as the resulting vibrations slam into his brain like a shockwave. "Are we done with the Oprah-moment, or are you gonna insist we hug it out too? 'Cause I gotta tell ya, man, you reek." He wrinkles his nose. "Seriously, dude, when was the last time you took a shower?"

Sam snorts a laugh and shakes his head.

"You're a real jerk, you know that?"

Dean smirks, because, even though the small shift of facial muscles lances a spear of agony right through his left eye socket, he knows that Sam needs him to.

"Bitch."

When his brother offers him some Advil and water a while later, Dean doesn't even think to fight about it. He takes as much water as he needs to swallow the two pills down – and chase the taste of afterlife off of his tongue – and then puts the bottle on the nightstand. Again, there's the bitter taste of gall rising in his throat, but it's more of a _just-lying-here-and-making-sure-you're-in-a-state-of-constant-discomfort_ than an _entrails-about-to-shoot-up-through-your-esophagus,_ so he figures he can live with it.

He shuffles down beneath the covers, and breathes a quiet sigh of relief when the lights go out. Distantly, he hears Sam moving around: brushing his teeth, closing his laptop, removing his shoes, before he too gets into bed. Sheets sliding against clothed skin and then nothing.

Of course, sometimes silence speaks louder than actual words.

Dean almost lasts a full minute before releasing an aggravated sigh.

"Just spit it out already, Sam. I can hear you thinking from all the way over here."

His brother shifts in the dark.

"You'll let me know if anything changes, right? If you feel worse or… anything?"

"Yeah, sure. Whatever."

"If your arms go numb, or your legs, or you can't remember things, or you can't walk, or hear, or speak, or-"

"Whoa, what?" Dean turns, frowning at the shadowed lump across from him. "The hell are you on about?"

"It's symptoms of a brain tumor."

" _Jesus_ , Sam, knock it off. If you keep talking, I swear to God I'll blow my brains out myself…"

"Just…" Sam interrupts, not deterred in the slightest. "Just promise you'll tell me, alright?"

Dean sighs.

"Will it shut you up?"

He can actually hear his brother smirk.

"Doubtful." A beat. "Think you'll be able to sleep?"

Dean grunts.

"Not as long as you keep on jabbering."

"Right. Sorry."

Dean rolls his eyes behind closed lids and forces himself to relax. His headache doesn't seem inclined to let up, _go_ _figure_ , but he's so tired he thinks he might actually fall asleep anyway.

For one, blessed moment, silence reigns.

 _three…_

 _two…_

 _one…_

"So, you'll tell if-"

" _Yes!_ Yes, Sam, I'll tell you if anything changes, alright, but seriously man, if you don't shut your friggin' cakehole, I will _strangle you_."

Apparently, College Boy finally seems to get it, and after another few moments of precarious silence, Dean presses his face into his pillow with a disgruntled grumble. He's just about to take the swan dive off of the precipice of consciousness and down into oblivion when Sam speaks up again.

"Hey… Dean?"

"Oh my God, _what?_ "

"I, uh… I'm glad you didn't die, man."

Dean keeps perfectly still and very deliberately doesn't open his eyes.

"Yeah, well… Thanks. For, uh, not letting me."

There's a beat of silence.

"You're welcome."

"Night, bitch."

"Night, jerk."

Drifting off, Dean thinks of how screwed he'd have been if Sam hadn't been with him: if he'd still been hunting solo. How he probably would've died in that basement, alone, and no one would've even known. He would've been tagged a John Doe and sent off for medical trials, had med. students poke at his insides (if his dad didn't pause in his hunt long enough to figure out he was one son short, and what were the odds of that happening?) He thinks on how good it feels, having someone at your back again after so long.

He's kinda missed it.

* * *

 **A/N:** Feel free to drop off a review! I'd appreciate the feedback.

Now that that's finally done, imma follow Dean's example and go catch myself some z's...


End file.
